


Interference

by _Lightning_ (Lightning070)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cell Phones, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Introspection, Panic Attacks, Poor Tony, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, Steve's phone, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Wakanda (Marvel), Wakes & Funerals, poor may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 17:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning070/pseuds/_Lightning_
Summary: He could ask FRIDAY, but he doesn't. He clings to that "maybe" enclosing the last hope he's got left. He refuses to shatter it as well.He's called her forty-two times and a part of him is glad her phone is unreachable. Hearing it endlessly ring – fifteen rings for every call, six-hundred-thirty rings lost in the ether and reverberating in his eardrums along with that looped "I'm sorry" and the snap – that would be way worse.(Or: Tony has a hard time coming to terms with the snap's aftermath and feels like being alone might be the best decision for now. It's probably not.)





	Interference

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Interferenze](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/416684) by _Lightning_. 



> Hi everyone! I hope you'll enjoy the story and I'll be most happy if you let me know what you think of it! I'm open to criticism, especially since I'm not a native speaker, so every correction/note about my style, grammar and so on will be most welcome :)  
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Here's the companion piece, kind of a sequel to this one: "Speaking Terms"-> https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835656

He's always hated telephones. Especially cell phones.

These days are horrible enough without having to face that dislike of his as well, one which is not so gratuitous like the many others that make up his persona – along with being handed things and always wearing his sunglasses in public. No, he feels like he has every reason to loathe those deceptively harmless devices – reasons going back to rings in the middle of a distant December night, to bombs going off in his face as his fingers jumble on a keypad, to missed calls moments before being warped through alien wormholes and to that goddamn flip phone that's been weighing in his pocket for months.

These days are horrible enough as they are, and all he's done since stepping on Earth again is dealing with those cursed contraptions. As soon as his suit had restored the connection with FRIDAY, a cacophony of rings, buzzes, and notices almost blew down his eardrums. He'd turned her off without thinking twice, keeping himself reachable only for Pepper, Happy and May, then physically unreachable for all the others.

He's forced himself to break his voluntary seclusion only to attend the funeral services for the Battle of Wakanda. And now he just wishes he could flee as soon as Okoye starts reeling off the long list of the fallen.

He'd thought he could endure standing straight in that black, suffocating suit: he's spent half his life boasting fake smiles to the press and right now he doesn't even need to feign a mourning facade. Still, he can feel something inside him stirring, ever more pressing with every name echoing across the crowded plaza. He can feel burning fissures radiating from his wound, threatening to shatter both his mind and body in conflicting shards: the need to know who's lost, the dread of hearing a known name, the fact that each one of them still carves a permanent dent in his conscience, the realization that the list is incomplete, because he still hasn't told anyone about what happened on Titan and even the blue alien has kept silent.

He'd thought he could endure it all, at least for some hours. But now he feels a weight on his sore shoulders and he hunches them by reflex, following that sickening sensation that's kept a hold on him for two days, constantly pushing him on the brink of panic. Only he now slips over the edge.

He's back on Titan. He breathes in the scorching, caustic air. He senses his feet sinking in the reddish sand. He smells brimstone and dust and flames. His wound is hellfire blazing in his middle; he feels his own blade tearing through the flesh.

He forces himself to snap back to reality – like he's learned after New York: deep breaths, count down from ten, thinking of... _not_ thinking. He takes his frightened mind by hand and steers it back towards his body. He can't let himself break down _now_ , not in public.

The red, outlandish glow fades and the dark funereal banners stand out again, hanging from the skyscrapers' walls reaching towards the clear sky. He's in the plaza, in Wakanda, standing on solid cobbles; the only smell is the incense of candles. The wound goes back to a dull throbbing. Then the loudspeakers start screeching familiar names:

"Virginia Potts... Peter Parker... Harold Hogan... James Rhodes... Howard Stark... Maria Carbonell..."

He digs his fingernails into his sweaty palms, regaining contact with reality once again. He wonders if that rumble he's hearing deafens his ears only and if his heart's really beating so loud the whole plaza quakes. He keeps hold of his shaky self-control, he squelches the sudden heaving that almost makes him bend over and he abruptly turns away. He's glad he's kept in the sidelines.

He puts on imaginary blinkers to shut out the puzzled stares he feels pouring down on him, and he only focuses on his escape route through the crowd. He's still struggling to keep his shallow and labored breath even.

Behind his usual dark shades, he glimpses Rogers looking in his direction. A stab pierces his sternum and his nausea raises, dangerously near to its brim. He thanks for his shielded eyes and slips away pretending not to see him. Even so, he's noticed his untidy appearance and the astonished, blaming look he darted at him as he saw him sneaking off, as well as the absence of Barnes next to him. He avoids processing the conflicting emotions burbling inside him at that last detail, only partially kept at bay by his brain. He simply convinces himself he's not caught sight of him in that crowd.

He makes a beeline for the plaza's edge and he takes a sharp turn, rushing into a back alley. He manages to get out of sight before his knees give out under him and he yields to the heaving.

  
***

 

He's back at T'Challa's palace, on the common room's terrace.

He's been tapping his fingers on the housing unit for the last five minutes, reminiscent of the calming gesture he still indulges in even though he's removed the reactor years ago. It's working, or at least he believes it does. He stops only when he realizes that the tension in his chest won't relent more than it already has.

He turns his still covered eyes to his surroundings. The nearby streets are deserted, but he catches sight of one of the endless parades honoring the fallen king and his warriors. Before him stretches the surreal and exotic savannah, scarred by the battle. He knows that, amidst the sun-dried grass, still lay countless piles of ashes. Right on the edge of the jungle raise the gargantuan half-destroyed spaceships, resembling ominous monoliths. From the city, billowing in the dry and warm wind, come the low notes of the Wakandan chants, lilting with high, guttural trills and melodic cries. A gloomy echo of drums permeates the air and fades at the savannah's border, only to bounce off again with new strength through the surrounding valleys and mountains, in a sorrowful choir.

The whole of Wakanda is mourning. Even the capital's vibranium buildings, once coated in warm colors and golden plating, have now shifted to an opalescent black – like the pelt of their totem animal.

He limply leans on the railing, feeling tired in every possible way and one step away from a nervous breakdown. He should sleep, but the sole idea of what's awaiting him beyond the tiredness pressing on his sockets is scary enough to keep him awake. The alternative to sleep is not that enticing either. He reaches for the old flip phone in his suit's inner pocket and wavers. He feels the need to fling it away, in the ash-covered plain. Bruce's shoved it in his hand as soon as he saw him stepping out the spaceship, after holding him in a frantic embrace. The gesture came along with a meaningful glare.

He figures he's had time to catch up with all that's happened during his out-of-planet holiday. He also figures he thinks it's his fault, but at that point, he honestly doesn't care. What happened two years ago seems like an irrelevant quarrel right now – one that still clenches his gut with bitterness, but still.

He draws out the flip phone, whose loosened hinges let the upper part dangle. On the small external screen, behind a net of cracks, he can make out date and time, a proof that the device's still working.

The irrational urge to use it now crosses his mind. It would be oh-so-Tony Stark. Just one of his usual, dramatic displays of cockiness to flaunt how he's still able to laugh, even facing the end of the world. It wouldn't even be the first time he's done that: he'd teased Loki and scoffed at Ultron, he'd dove head-first against all that could've destroyed him and the ones he loved. And he did all of that with a cheeky wisecrack on his lips and a mocking grin on his face – the perfect facade.

Now he can't even manage a smile, and only one-word answers leave his mouth. He's dodged every physical, visual and verbal contact with who's left – he's still not even sure _who_ exactly – and he'd holed up in his room for two days straight, refusing any medical care. The pain is bearable, the sloppily treated wound will probably scar him for life and he's okay with that.

For two days he hasn't done anything but keeping his phone stuck to his ear, listening to the same robotic voice informing him that Pepper couldn't be reached at the moment, over and over again. He could ask FRIDAY, but he doesn't. He clings to that "maybe" enclosing the last hope he's got left. He refuses to shatter it as well. He's called her forty-two times and a part of him is glad her phone is unreachable. Hearing it endlessly ring – fifteen rings for every call, six-hundred-thirty rings lost in the ether and reverberating in his eardrums along with that looped _I'm sorry_ and the snap – _that_ would be way worse.

May had called him before he could manage to. He'd seen the dozen lost calls, but he couldn't bring himself to press that small, green button. Of course, the woman had already figured it all out, but she'd asked anyway. About everything. And he'd answered, to everything, because she has the right to know and blame him and yell at him for her boy's death. She has the right to ask about what he said before disappearing and he has the duty to answer, to whisper _I'm sorry_ with the intention of reporting his words only to find himself repeating them over and over again – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'm so sorry_ – in an endless mantra, his voice on the verge of breaking as he heard May's sobs on the other side. His own are still caged in his chest. They would be an undeserved relief, so he just drowns them in his lungs.

He'd like to think it isn't his fault. This time he really wishes he could blame it all upon chance, but he always ends up having a very active role in all his mistakes.

He presses on his abdomen, on the gush piercing through him, and he makes sure it hurts. It _does_ hurt, to the point a flash goes off in his head, but not as much ad the chasm shredding up his chest when he reaches for his shoulder. That same shoulder the kid clung onto looking for help he didn't find. His fingers brush against the suit's fabric and then claw at it, fumbling for a lost warmth.

He _pretends_ he can hear the kid talking non-stop about anything going through his mind like it was of the utmost importance – and it was, it _is_ , everything he said to him mattered, be it a physics test or his missions, or the churros he'd eaten, or that MJ girl he had a crush on, or the Millennium Falcon model he'd completed with Ned, or wholeheartedly thanking him for the new suit he'd built for him or just rambling about how cool it was to be Spider-Man and be able to cruise through New York jumping breezily from one skyscraper to another.

He _pretends_ he's wrapped in the slim, firm arms that have been his anchor for twenty years, he pretends hearing a silvery laugh tickling his neck and delicate fingers caressing the umpteenth scar, as a soothing voice softly scolds him for his recklessness. He pretends to see her before him, radiant in that white dress she's chosen and that he loves to bits – even though he shouldn't know about it, but he couldn't help himself and his curiosity and she's going to flip when she finds out. He doesn't care, because being able to recollect that image is now a precious privilege.

Those hazy delusions seem to pierce through reality, vivid and lively. They're faint statics interfering with a steady, dull signal, like a flat line startled by the erratic beat of a dying heart.

He looks around him and he feels like floating in a bubble, in safe isolation. He doesn't want any contact, he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to dig up the past; this time he doesn't even want his armor and its fake embrace. It could never replace the one of the only two people who'd seen something in him he still can't even conceive to have in the first place.

Because Pepper doesn't see Iron Man when she looks at him, and she holds him close despite all the mistakes and the shells he keeps building around him – and thanks to her he doesn't need a blue light bulb anymore to remind himself he has a heart.

Because Peter looks at him and sees Iron Man even when he's not wearing his armor, and he's reached out to a part of him he'd believed to have buried along with his parents – and thanks to him he can believe he's done at least something right along the line, to deserve all that boundless admiration from someone so inherently good.

He can't think of losing it all to wake up alone like twenty years ago, _alone_ in the void he himself had created. He wants to scream just thinking about it, but he clamps his mouth and his knuckles whiten. He can feel the strain in his vocal chords, the pressure building against his throat, but all that escapes his lips is a half-way between a withheld sob and a faint cough.

He's alone now, but the interference in that unmistakable signal remind him he could not be so, and he's filled with the same blinding rage that overwhelmed him on Titan. It's the pure, simple desire he could _do_ something.

And locking himself up in his room, even deprived of his own tears, stuck in endlessly reliving the same moments and praying for an answer without really looking for it, that's not _doing_ something. That's going back to that December night and remain on his knees; that's going back to that cave and refuse to get out. That's allowing himself to die. That's fading away quietly, crumpled in the edge of a room.

Not the kind of end that would suit Tony Stark.

He can feel his neurons shiver like they were awakened by that feeble, vibrating wave. He's built a reactor in a cave with a box of scraps. He's created Iron Man. He's synthesized a new element in his living room. He's saved New York, he's cracked Extremis while drunk, he's healed Pepper and made up for Ultron and supported Peter and fixed Steve's shield and repaired himself – and that one might just be his most unbelievable achievement yet.

He can clearly sense his synapses starting to link with each other, filling the dull emptiness in his head and sending some feeble flicker in his grey thoughts. He needs a plan, he needs to fix that mess like he always does and he has to get it right more than ever because losing Pepper and Peter feels like losing the best and brightest parts of himself.

He lowers his gaze on the phone he's holding and he knows – he's known for two days or maybe two years – _that_ has to be the first piece of his plan.

 

_"Please... please, I don't want to go."_

_"It doesn't matter who you're talking to or not."_

_"We're in the endgame now."_

_"I'll be there."_

 

He opens the phone and stares at the shattered screen, mostly unreadable. Before he could do anything it frizzles and then downright blackens. He presses some keys, to no avail. He sighs in resignation at that ultimate technological betrayal, then sinks his hands in his slacks' pockets and limps into the common room. He sags into a chair at the wide glass table, loosens his tie and takes off his sunglasses, rubbing his eyelids. He briefly considers the flip phone with trained eye: being The Mechanic, he could fix it in no time.

He puts it in his pocket instead and folds his hands in front of him, quietly waiting.

After all, he hates phones. Especially cell phones.

**Author's Note:**

> The last four quotes belong to Peter, Bruce, Strange and Rogers, respectively.
> 
> The expression "crumpled in the edge of a room" derives from Bukowski's poem "What's The Use Of A Title?"


End file.
